I knew nothing very well.
In praise of nada, I adorned
No jewelry, no tattoos, no makeup
Plain white socks and a t-shirt
The walls of my home,
Decorated in a tasteful
Sense of nothing.
My food, not spiced
Not salted, not peppered.
I read books about nothing special
You can find them at any nondescript market.
The garbage, picked up on Wednesday
Recycling on Tuesday, nothing changed.
At work, nobody bothered me
They spoke of children, parties
Movies, husbands, in laws, disgruntled neighbors
A whole load of nothing interesting
It could be said that
Nothing really bothered me
I was intrigued with nothing
Or was it that nothing was intrigued with me?
I wrote a memoir, it came out of the blue
From thin air. Where else would it come from?
I found out that
I have nothing in common
With thousands upon thousands
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